Chapters Fallout: Equestria - Shattered Dreams
Fallout: Equestria - Shattered Dreams
by: Requiem Mori
Prologue: Writ In Blood
Memories are little reminders of just how badly we’ve messed up.
What is a life, when measured against the weight of the centuries? What is one life, when so many others are lost? Who am I, to dare believe that mine will matter in the end? One life. One empty, cursed life. How I wish that it were not so, that my bones were instead scattered across the Wasteland, my soul released to whatever torment I deserve, my life forgotten by all that now live. But, happy endings are for good ponies, I suppose. And I am not a good pony. And I probably never will be. But the tale of the accursed Nevermore... it is a long one, though I bear no illusions that it will matter to those that read it later, if, in fact, they actually do know how to read still. The ponies that infest this festering corpse of a land I once loved sicken me. Some days, it still pains me to know that I fought and sacrificed for these... these... it would be rather uncouth to finish that, I suppose.
~From the Journal of Nevermore
The sky is dark overhead, the night hanging still and heavy around me. I glide gently through the air like a silent phantasm, keeping low, keeping quiet. A knife rests easily on my hoof, strapped to my leg, even as I stalk my quarry. He looks back, but not up, knowing that death approaches, but not from where. I would pity him, if I had room for such things in my heart anymore. No, actions have consequences, and it is up to me to deliver the price this time.
“Show yourself! I know you’re out there! I’ll pay you double, triple! Just go away!” His voice rings out amid the ruins of a dead city. A desperate voice sounding in a graveyard. A fitting location, for a deserved end. I can hear the fear in his voice. I can smell the panic on his hide. It fills me with disgust, the reek of sweat and loose bowels as fear overcomes him. I drop from the sky on silent wings, a charcoal shadow, my crimson mane and tail blowing behind me as I fall in a graceful swoop, arching my back as I dive towards him. He’s panicked, which makes it almost painfully easy.
The first cut slices through his rear leg, severing one of the tendons, causing the leg to collapse. He cries out, turning to find me, but ends up looking the wrong way as I twist behind him again. Another slice, and the other leg collapses, bleeding profusely as I sever blood vessels, giving him but minutes to live. Something he is unlikely to have. With a sharp spin, I drive the tip of the dagger into his chest, the stallion’s eyes growing wide. I never even knew his name. But to be honest, I never cared to either.
I had been following his trail for a while, leading to here, among the outskirts of Manehatten, the sprawling metropolis reduced to a shattered fragment of its former glory. Yet, for me, the stillness was welcome, away from the bustling hub that it used to be. My mind wanders for a moment to a previous time. The hustle and bustle, the streets bursting with life. Ponies everywhere, yet all still willing to give a polite nod, a kind smile. That was indeed, a different time. Blood starts to pool around my hooves as I look down at him, the stallion bleeding out on the cold, unforgiving ground. I wonder, for a moment, what he sees The mask over my face, hissing slightly as I breathe. The cloak, covering an old dress from a different time. The veil covering my face, hanging from a top hat set at a jaunty angle. Or perhaps he sees beyond that, to the decaying and putrefying hide of a charcoal pegasus mare, her deep crimson mane framing what was once considered a beautiful yet cold face.
Or perhaps he, instead, is focused on something else. The knife that had ended his life. The dark blood marking the uncaring blade. He gasps for breath, even as I spin the knife around, preparing to end it swiftly and cleanly. I am not like some of the others, or so I tell myself. I am not interested in seeing others suffer. His sins are minor, just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Luck, it seems, is a fickle mistress. What was once his good fortune so swiftly became bad. A rare find, a cache of Old World technology, hidden from the rest of the Wasteland. A lucky find, the sort that could give a pony a needed influx of ready caps. Bad luck, however, that it was owned by a rather cantankerous old ghoul. The items themselves did not mean much to me. What was more precious was the memories that they brought, a reminder of days long past, of things that no longer exist properly. A memory of older, better times. In them, I can remember faces long forgotten, visit places that are but distant memories.
I look at him, a stallion not far out of his twenties, the last one that I had to avenge myself upon. The one who had run the furthest, the fastest. But you cannot outrun your fate, no matter how much you may desire to. That was a lesson that I had learned through hard and painful existence. I shake my head behind my mask, my knife reaching up to slit his throat, to put an end to his gurgling. He seems to struggle, trying to say something, his face a mask of pain and fear. “Eclipse...” I freeze as I hear that, the word echoing in my mind. I had seen that word before, inscribed on the forehead of a corpse, one that had not passed this life quickly or easily. The image of that flayed body involuntarily filling my mind. Broken and shattered, a hollow shell of what once was a pony.
With that word, and a look of profound relief, he expires, the air suddenly filled with a slight beeping noise. I barely have time to realize what’s happening, before the bomb in his chest explodes, tearing him to shreds and sending a wave of shrapnel and debris to rip through me, my torn and battered body thrown against a sky chariot, smoldering slightly and bleeding from a dozen wounds as I lay there. Something dark and wet lands in front of me with a plop, bone showing through the rent flesh. Is that... that is my leg... back left from the looks of it. It’s amazing what you notice during times like this. The ground is rough and hard, stained now with the ichor oozing from my wounds, giving me plenty of time to think as my blood leaks out. Pain wracks my body, eating through the numbness that had defined my existence for over a century, my mind focusing instead on that single word, one that I remembered, spoken by this now deceased stallion. A coincidence? Perhaps. But I don’t believe in those. I’m still pondering his word as the world begins to fade to black, shrouding my vision in darkness.
~~~~~~~~~~
I find myself in a familiar place, a dry and dusty plain, surrounded by skeletons and corpses as far as the eye can see. Each one in their place, each one well known to me. I start to name them, my voice echoing across the sun baked land as I look each of the remains in the eyes... even as their empty sockets looks back at me. “Hello, Acid Rain, hello Voice Box, hello...” This goes on for an eternity, a quiet torment as I look at all the bodies, blood welling up around my hooves. Blood that I can never remove. Blood that will never be washed out... Blood threatening to drown me. Yet this time, there’s no voice in the background. No rasping call reminding me of old failures. I had faced that demon, back in Detrot. I had left there, leaving all those I had known from there, to wander again for years. I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t see them. Not after all they paid for my desires, for me wishes. Why I ever inspired that sort of loyalty... I suppose I will never know. The bodies keep piling up around me, burying me in a mountain of bones, even as the ground falls out beneath me, sending me falling... falling... falling...
~~~~~~~~~~
With a sickening lurch of necromantic magic, I begin to stand back up, my wounds knitting, the flesh forcing the shrapnel out, the shards falling to the ground with a tinkling noise. My lungs rattle as the magic does its dark work, restoring me once more despite the hatred I hold for my condition with a sharp inhalation of the tainted air. I look towards the remains of the pony I had hunted, even as the sun starts to rise on the horizon in a stark and harsh dawn. A dark smear on the pavement, bits of blood and flesh scattered on the ground from something that no longer resembles the equine form. A bomb, in a pony like him, one that seemed to have nothing in their past that would lead to such a device. That is not something that should happen, and it involves one who had raided upon my memories... my past. My face hardens into a grim stare... there are answers out there, that need to be found. But first, there are questions that need to be asked. The first, and most important, one comes to my mind immediately... why?
~~~~~~~~~~
Welcome back to Level 13!
Looks like you stepped right back into it, didn’t you? Well, I suppose your miserable hide needed some exercise anyways. Do try to not get blown up too much though. As painful as it is for you, I’m sure you’re getting tired of it... right?
Author's Note
Thus begins another story. This story takes place after the events of False Dawn, (Seen here: https://www.fimfiction.net/story/92419/fallout-equestria---false-dawn ) but shouldn't require knowledge of False Dawn to make sense, as they should be independent stories.
Thanks for reading! Requiem Mori.
Fallout: Equestria - Shattered Dreams
Chapter 1: Of Old Acquaintances
Chapter 1: Of Old Acquaintances
Memories are little reminders of just how badly we’ve messed up.
What can you say when you have nothing in common. No goals, no motivations. I have never been the most social of ponies, and making new acquaintances was always too complicated. ‘Smile more’ or ‘do not scowl so much’ are the sort of comments others would make before the war. During and after, it was more ‘stop stabbing him’. But I digress. If there is anything that I hate more than meeting a new pony, it would have to be renewing contact with an old one. Especially ones who are not any better at socializing than I am.
I walk down the streets of Manehatten, my hooves clipping off the hard pavement, kicking debris and snow into the air behind me. It had been many years since I had last been here, yet I still remembered the path, remembered this place. I look towards the covered sky, snow falling down in gentle sheets, sticking to my hat, my coat, my mane. I remember the snow in Manehatten, not as it is now, but rather how it was then. The lights in the air, the bustle of the city... companions I once had walking around me, talking to each other, joking, having fun to break the grim realities of our day to day. I remember that day, I was looking at the shops, remembering the stores in Trottingham, debating a new hat, when a snowball struck me squarely on the back of the head. The Skyrates stopped, all of them falling to dead silence as I slowly turned my head to see who had done the deed. To the pony, they stepped back to reveal the culprit. To the pony, they pointed to the Captain, even as he wordlessly dropped another snowball from open hoof.
With the speed and natural grace of my kind, I whirled, my winter coat flapping at the sudden movement. Skilfully, I gathered the snow before me, then lashed out, completing the graceful spin with my rear leg launching the hardened ball of snow at his face. He took it, either unable to dodge or unwilling to face my wrath if he avoided it... or perhaps to try to bring some levity, even as the armored dress under my cloak settled back down, the knives tucked away clinking in their hidden sheathes. I watch him as he falls, almostly overly dramatically, like a bad actor for a sappy drama. Yet, despite my turn and my almost arrogant sneer, the corner of my mouth turned up, only for an instant, into a smile.
But what are memories? It is still cold, quiet, and empty. The snow burying the dead, the ruins, the wreckage, yet despite the beauty and serenity, there is nothing but death, decay, and rot hidden below the surface. I shake my head to clear it, banishing the morose thoughts from my mind. This was not a time to be distracted, not a time to reminisce. After all, even though the area is shrouded in an almost lethal silence, I am not so foalish as to believe that it is safe. Several factions had taken up positions over the blasted ruins, and I never affiliated with any of them. Then again, most ponies despise ghouls for what we are, and my particular variety of ghoul made it... more complicated. Being a Canterlot ghoul made my very existence a danger to those around me, coupled with my lack of charm or desire for company. By the same token, however, those aware of my type would be wary of a direct fight. Spying a Ministry of Magic poster, I drift over to it, carefully looking for graffiti or excessive damage. Worn around the edges, warped by the moisture, yet still... relatively intact. Excellent. I eye the mare on the poster critically. I had never spoken to her, even though I had seen her in the flesh before the world ended. Polite, proper, friendly and smart beyond most of her peers. Even if I did not like her myself, I was forced to at least respect her, even if her incessant friendship prattle was enough to drive one mad. With care, I peel it off the wall before rolling it up and gently placing it into my bag. Another link to my past, a memory that few these days can claim. I don’t know why I still collect these, always looking for a cleaner, better copy of the posters to adorn my walls. Yet here I am, rolling up a poster with Twilight’s smiling face on it to plaster onto my walls later.
I stop suddenly, twitching my ear as I fade backwards towards one of the shadows between the walls, my eye gleaming past a rent in the mask I wear on my face. Voices I don’t recognize and hooves slowly pounding down the asphalt road approach me. I imagine that I can smell them, before I can see them. Raiders by marks and by equipment. Armor pounded out of whatever scrap they could manage to find. A scowl crosses my face even as I consider myself fortunate. Nopony to protect this time, no charges under my care. I may despise raiders, and what they stand for, yet even I know that I cannot possibly remove them all by myself. No, there was no need to fight. No reason to end lives in a futile attempt to make a change to the blasted Wasteland. After all, I am just one pony, and hardly a paragon at that. Opening my wings with all the noise of a hushed whisper, I rise up into the night sky, leaving the raiders to their business, even as I attend to mine. A broken tower lies before me, a section not accessible to the ground below. It is not much, worn, battered, and shattered from the effects of a megaspell over a century ago, yet... it has a roof, walls, and more importantly, it was mine.
The Loft, so different yet so akin to others of its kind, locations I had hidden in any place I intended to stay a while, full of Old World relics, books, posters, and other possessions I had no desire to carry around with myself on a daily basis. The stallion from before had died retrieving relics from one of my Lofts. It was a location just like this one, but located further south near the ruins of Fillydelphia. I was surprised they had found it, surprised they had bypassed or deactivated the mines I had scattered to discourage visitors. Furthermore, I was surprised they had found a way into the area, since it was supposed to have been cut off from the ground bound. How lucky they must have felt, finding a stockpile of Old World technology, guns, and caps. How unlucky were they when they invaded my home the day I had finally returned to it.
I landed amidst them like a vengeful wraith, clad in shadow, my breath hissing ominously behind my mask. The leader had tried to argue with me, claiming that they had found all of this, and by rights it was theirs. The unspoken yet implied threat looming, that there were five of them, and only one of me. I had debated letting them go, if they left the items, yet the location wouldn’t be secure if any others knew about it. My decision was made for me as the leader reached for her pistols, telekinetic magic lighting up with a flash. It ended just as quickly, a knife burying itself into one of her pretty lavender eyes. The look on her face, of terror and surprise, is one that had etched its way into my mind through countless battles, through endless wars, and through constant death. The knowledge in her eyes that her young life was about to be stripped from her still burns into my mind. Yet, for all my long years, for my decades of combat, ponies can yet still surprise me. The large stallion, clad in the patched remains of an Equestrian uniform, charged me, screaming for the others to run. I tell myself, that if this was during the war I would have avoided him. That age, condition, and weariness have worn me down, dulled my reflexes from where they were at the peak of the war. Perhaps I only tell myself this to salve my pride.
He bears me off the ledge they had built, into the waiting darkness, into the cruel grip of gravity. He knows how far down it goes, just as I know I built my loft on the 23rd floor of the shattered hotel. The stallion grips onto me tightly, clamping my wings against the side of my body as I try to wriggle free, try to escape his death grasp. I honestly don’t know if a fall of this distance would kill me, and death by falling is not something one of the skyborn usually consider. I twist and pull, fighting to break free of his monstrous strength, even as he clamps down even harder. A swift knife into his side, coupled with a solid kick are enough to finally break me free. Even as my wings flared open to arrest my descent, I hear the splat of the solid pony hitting the more solid ground. Still, he did what he intended to do, delaying me while the others fled, though perhaps he hoped to finish me. But now I had targets to hunt. And I am nothing if not relentless.
I shake the memories from my mind, realized I had zoned out again, my mind wandering to what was, rather than what is. Careless and sloppy, and one day perhaps I will pay for reminiscing. My hoof drifts over the words carefully written on the wall with my flowing script. “The Loft”. Shaking my head, and snorting derisively, I let the mask drop from my face, the heavy rubber sloshing to the ground as the water held inside absorbed the Pink Cloud I exhale. Thin wisps of pink curl past my muzzle, my breathing shallow to avoid gasing my temporary home. After checking to make sure there were no surprises hidden away and putting my new poster up, I find my way towards the thin blankets and rolls forming a makeshift bed. Dropping my bags to the ground carefully, I close my eyes, surrendering to the quiet embrace of troubled sleep, haunted by memories and dreams.
~~~~~~~~~~
I stand on the front of the airship, the Flickerjack. The wind blows through my mane, cold and harsh as we plow through another cloud bank. Though I’ve worn them countless times, my armored dress and the knives stashed in it weigh heavily on me. Not for their weight, designed as they are to minimize the impact to my agility, but rather the burden they impose on my heart. I am Nevermore, the dour, the stoic. Yet here, in the dead of the night, alone by myself, I can think of the doubts and fears that I hide from all the others. None know anything but the facade of the mare obsessed with the war, with the killing, with the death. A facade even to myself. I do not allow myself to think of such things normally, but in the quiet, in the stillness, these thoughts invade my mind like a poison eating away at my mind. Those thoughts born in blood and death, of both my friends and my foes. This war was destroying me, even as I fought to destroy others. I knew that we were right, that our cause was just, yet... is the price we’re paying too high? If it were just my destruction on the horizon, I would consider it a just price, but there’s the others here with me. The few that I dare to care about, though I mask my feelings with scorn and derision. The moon shines her light down upon me, revealing glistening down my cheeks and the corner of my eyes, revealing the tears I dare not shed while others can see, the tears I hide within myself, so that none may know the sorrows I bear, the fears that consume me. However, I am Nevermore. I will fight as I must, I will kill what I must. I will do what I must, as always.
~~~~~~~~~~
Dawn breaks, scattering light across my humble abode. I wake, abruptly shifting from sleep to readiness with the experience earned on hundreds of battlefields. Carefully, I begin to preen my feathers and comb my mane and tail, ever mindful of my appearance despite my condition. While I may be living in the hellish wastes as a cursed corpse, I do not have to look like that. One advantage of the necromatic regeneration, I suppose. My body is in much better shape than it has any right to be after all this time, though still wracked with rot and decay. Finishing, I look over at the reason I’m here right now with disdain, the book sitting by itself away from my journals, on top of a battered old radio set. I never liked using technology. I swear it has an aversion to me as well, the blasted things never working the way I wanted it too, even before the war. Thankfully, my dour disposition and tendency to hit others made it unlikely for others to pick on me more than once for my technological ineptitude.
Carefully, I pick up the worn and battered book, flipping through the coded entries before locating the one I wanted. Each page was encrypted, and each encryption was different, based on the page number and color of markings on the pages. After all, this was not a journal, but rather a log. A log of all the contact information I had maintained for ponies I’ve met throughout the Wastes. My eyes drift over the old pages, picking out the information I needed, loathe though I am to contact this particular mare. Still, there is nopony better at knowing things they have no business knowing, an insatiable curiosity, a brilliant mind, and the privilege of ready resources creating one of the Wasteland’s best information brokers, though she’d hate being called that.
I had a few dealings with her before, and her price was always the same. Knowledge and information. It didn’t matter what it was, only that it was something she didn’t already know. Thankfully, I was a walking repository of ancient knowledge, and careful enough to not reveal all I know when I have the displeasure of meeting her. If not for the knowledge I contain, I am fairly certain she would have tried to dissect me the first time we met nose to nose...
With a disgruntled sigh, I lift the radio, tuning it to the required frequency. No smoke, fire, or explosions of any sort, so that’s a good thing. My voice rasps out, cold, harsh, and full of irritation. “This is Nevermore. Requesting an exchange of information, Scribe Promise Keeper.” And that was it. She had promised all those years ago that she would listen, in case I contacted once more... how long ago was it? I stay near the radio as I start counting back the time to when I last contacted her, my concentration broken by the crackling of the radio.
“Nevermore... was it? This is Scribe Sacred Oath... what did you want with my grandmother?”
Oh.
Fallout: Equestria - Shattered Dreams
Chapter 2: For the Sake of Knowledge
Chapter 2: For the Sake of Knowledge
Knowing what you did wrong is the first step to regretting it.
How is it, that some ponies do not desire to read? That they, in fact, cannot read? It boggles the mind of one such as I... born and bred into a realm of knowledge, facts, and countless lectures. I could no more not read than I could not breathe, yet, the idiots of this accursed wasteland seem to go out of their way to prove me right with every breath they exhale. Empty words from empty minds, the ponies unable or unwilling to see past their nose to a future that may yet be. But, then again, perhaps they are the wise ones. For whence comes vision, comes despair. Ignorance may be bliss, especially when we shall all be dying painfully anyways.
The snow falls gently around me, a beautiful scene, that even one such as I can appreciate. It reminds me of what once was, of a kinder, gentler time. Yet even my deadened body can feel the bitter bite of a frigid winter, the wind slashing through my clothing and down to my bones with icy claws. I shiver despite myself, wishing for nothing more than a fire to warm my tired bones once more. Still I wait, cold and silent as a corpse, my body playing its part as I lay in the street, one casualty among many. This ‘Sacred Oath’ had wished to meet me muzzle to muzzle, so to speak, and while I knew her grandmother, I never trusted her. Then again, I never trust anyone, least of all myself. Still, the snow falls, and I hope she arrives before I get completely buried in it.
I mull through my mind previous encounters I’ve had with the Steel Rangers. Most of the time, I avoided them when I could, both for their safety, and for mine. I was never a fan of their suits of armor, back during the War and after, yet they still impose some order, such as it is, though many don’t appreciate the semblance of control that they provide. Of course, their armor could be useful, I remember seeing the demonstrations when they were being prepared, and was even given the chance to pilot one of the suits, though my wings and their bulk made it impractical and very uncomfortable. Some things were not designed for everypony, after all. Not all my encounters were at a distance, however. I’ve been shot at by them more than once, and I fought alongside them as well. When not on the receiving end, I could appreciate their sheer firepower and armored resilience, though it did make it quite the pain when I was not on their good side. Slow to trust outsiders, they are even more wary of a stranger who looks and acts as I do. I do not blame them, however. After all, I would not trust me either.
After what feels like ages, though I know it has only been a scarce hooful of minutes, I hear a familiar sound, the sharp whine and harsh thud of powered armor. And from the sounds of it, more than one. Eyes hidden behind my veil, I watch the figure stomp into view. A towering pony, the bulk of the armor only seems to accentuate the tall figure wearing it. The ominous sight of a gatling pans back and forth, following the helmeted gaze of its master. While I am certain they are speaking, from the pauses and the careful scans, I am not privy to the communications of the Steel Rangers, for this is what they are. The faint clicks coming from them confirms my suspicions, but does nothing to reveal what they’re saying.Their iconography, however, is proudly emblazoned on the armor’s flanks. A few steps behind, comes a much smaller figure, though still clad in steel. This one, however, is a bit different, the armor lighter and thinner, even to my untrained eye. And while much of the armor was enshrouded by a red cloak, the mounted grenade launcher gave no doubts about its purpose. Combat. A quick look between the two, and the smaller mare reaches up, her helmet hissing as the seal breaks, exposing her face to the rest of the Wasteland. A short black mane crowns her pale coat, a streak of gold cutting through the dark mane. Her face appears to have little regard for the rest of the world, even as she looks around, nose wrinkling slightly.
“... situation appears normal, communications adequate. Cover is not optimal, but should not be required. Temperature is within expected variation, snowfall is minimal, given the circumstances. Presence of entity ‘Nevermore’ is not confirmed at this time. Given name and demeanor, is it likely...” Her voice trails in and out, the mare apparently having a constant stream of words as she observes the world around her. It doesn’t even seem to be a conscious effort, but rather a habitual recital of everything she’s seeing, thinking, and calculating. Only a Scribe of the Steel Rangers would be so... particular. Not wishing to keep her waiting, I slowly stand up, snow falling off my cloak in a small cascade.
“Sacred Oath, I presume.” My rasping voice rings across the ruined plaza, echoing through ruins and debris. Unnervingly, I realize that while she had seemed distracted, her eye was locked onto my hiding spot before I moved.
I tense as the whine of powered armor moves to face me, the long barrels of the tall Ranger’s gatling swinging into line with me, even as Sacred Oath speaks. “Behaviour is expected, appearance matches previously known encounters. Subject is called ‘Nevermore’, given or assumed? I am not certain. Does not seem the sort of name received by most ponies. Records indicated pre-war existence, leading to more uncertainty regarding named status. Subject does not appear to be feral, ghoul traits are clear, yet remarkably well preserved, given assumed age. Further testing desired...” Her rambling monotone cuts off for a second as she receives the harshest glare I can muster. “... but does not seem to be a willing subject. Perhaps request body after final death.” She clears her throat. “Yes, I am Sacred Oath of the Steel Rangers, Scribe.” Her equipment and the deference the other pony shows her makes me doubt that she is just a Scribe, but I am not here to argue with her or quibble about ranking. She motions to the pony next to her. “This is Knight Hazelnut Honeycake. You have something you want, yes?” Her matter of fact recital makes her sound almost bored, though her gaze constantly flicks over me and around, absorbing the details from the world around her.
I eye her carefully, her bland expression doing little to assuage my thoughts that this mare was exceedingly dangerous. Not for physical bulk or even for her weaponry, but her golden eyes conceal what seems to be a sharp intellect and a burning need for information. “I am the one called Nevermore, and yes... I had meant to contact your grandmother, but...” I shrug slightly. “I suppose I had lost track of the time.”
“Ah yes, Promise Keeper kept good notes on you... fascinating creature that you are. Not many of your type are so active yet so...” She seems to think for the right word for a moment. “... sane. Yes, that will do. Of course, her records were not complete on you, it seems that nothing ever is, but that is what gathering information is for, though you seem to be particularly fond of secrets and keeping yourself hidden.” She muses for a brief moment. “But, I think I already know what you are looking for.” A small grin cracks across her muzzle, a knowing look in her eye. “So let me tell you this. There is something I want from the ruins of the Silver Maple Library, and there you can also find the question that you should ask.” She slips her helmet back on, her voice taking on the rasping metallic voice associated with powered armor. “Of course, Knight Honeycake will be accompanying you for this expedition. I don’t need to remind you about our protocols for interacting with somepony like you, yes?”
I’m wronghoofed for a moment at the way this mare talks before I shake my head. I do not need the reminder... after all, I can hardly fault the Steel Rangers for prioritizing the lives of their own over that of a stranger, and they are well known for keeping their secrets. “As long as they do not slow me down or get me killed, I do not object to their presence.” Though the appearance is wildly different and the function serves a different purpose, my heart feels as if it were drenched in ice as I remember the last mare to accompany me in powered armor. “Though I do wonder... why would you send me, when I am certain your Knight there can recover whatever it is you wanted without me, yes?”
Her blank helmet turns to face me, preventing me from seeing her face, or reading her tone. “Because it is the most efficient course of action. After seeing you, and looking into your eyes...” She chuckles slightly. “This is the most logical choice that I could make, and that’s all that I need to make a decision on the matter.” She looks at her companion. “You have your orders, as I have mine. I will see you in the Bunker when this is all over.” With a delicate whine of electronics and the smooth hum of her armor, she turns and starts to walk off.
I watch her for a bit, knowing the mare is likely to wander a bit, attempting to throw anypony following her off the track of the Bunker she calls home. From what I’ve seen of her, she’s also likely to see what else is about, maybe poke her nose through some ruins on her trip back. The tall mare watches in silence as well, waiting, it seems, until her superior was out of earshot. “Well... ain’tcha dressed all nice... been a while since I got ta be spendin’ time about with non-Rangers, ya?”
Her sudden comments and jovial tone, even filtered through her helmet catches me off guard. Not many seem... cheerful, surrounded by the ruins of civilization. My gaze tracks over to the tall mare. “... Honeycake, was it?” My voice rasps, emphasizing the lack of enthusiasm in my tone. I don’t much like others commenting on my appearance, for good or for ill. In fact, I hope most don’t notice me at all, as it makes my job easier usually, and I still relish the peace and quiet that is all too often denied me.
“Oh ya, friends call me Hazel though, much easier, less of a mouthful.” The powerfully built earth pony pulls her helmet off, revealing her tanned coat. “But don’t be mindin’ tha boss that much, she’s a little grump, but she be meanin’ well.” Sweat sticks her black mane to her coat, steam rising off her into the frigid air. “I mean, ya probably know her better than I do, since you managed to drag her out of the Bunker, ‘lestia knows she’d prefer ta be buried in her lab, but she seems ta be worried about something...” She gives me a curious look, her warm hazel eyes devoid of the malice and coldness I’m used to seeing in others. “Do ya be knowin’ anythin’? Or we just be headin’ off ta see what we can rouse up?”
Great... a chatterbox. Of course, of all the stoic Rangers in the Wasteland, I had to get the one that’s overly chatty and apparently friendly... or at least appears so. I look over at the mare, this Steel Ranger who’s accompanying me now. Tall, even for an earth pony, she has a laid back and casual look, a gentle smile that seems fixed in place even as she surveys the wastes around us. Taller than even Star Racer was, I idly wonder how they built a suit big enough for her... seems like she’d manage to wear two normal sized suits instead of the one she has on. Unlike the scribe from before, she seems much more open and honest about her expressions, which is an oddity in the Wastes. In fact, her entire attitude seems out of place, a casual regard for everything. I wonder if this mare is bothered by anything, based on the few minutes I’ve spent around her. My voice scrapes out its reply, dry and sepulcher. “... I do not know much of what your Scribe wanted... we will have to find out, I suppose.” I look around a bit, trying to get my bearings. “Silver Maple Library should be...”
“Oh, it be about three hunnerd an’ twenty five meters, north north-west. Give or take, the boss gave me tha location for me armor before we left. She was sayin’ somethin’ about it, but...” She gives a sheepish grin. “Sometimes it’s hard ta follow exactly what she be sayin’ all tha time, ya?” The mare keeps talking, as if changing the topic was fluid and normal. “And of course, you can call me Hazel too, I don’t be mindin’, and we’re basically mates already, but if you be one of ‘em more formal sorts, then my Callsign is Crossfire... some of the others thought it be funny, though it was only one time...” She barks out a riotous laugh. “Of course, Maple Pancake didn’t think it was funny at tha time, but she only had to pick some debris from her hide. Thought she be appreciatin' what happened to tha raider more. After all, this armor isn’t just for show, ya know.” I try to tune her out as we walk, though that does nothing to assuage the stream of words from her, my steps gliding silently over the snow as hers clomp through it like an armored freight train. I’m surprised they called her Crossfire and not Chatterbox, and given the current situation, I can see why they’d want her out of their Bunker as much as possible. “... so then I be thinkin’, if they wanted it so badly, then they shouldn’t be wastin’ ammo like that on armor, ya? Of course, the look on their faces changed when I swung my friend here around, and-” Hazel suddenly stops, smashing her helmet back onto her head. “Hold there friend, my E.F.S. be tellin’ me that there be somethin’ nasty out there... plenty of red it seems, though wary of approachin’... probably not wildlife then, since tha poor blighters wouldn’t know a Ranger until we stomped ‘em...”
Not for the first time, and not for the last, I feel a twinge of envy at the E.F.S. system that others have. It’d sure make my life a lot easier if some magical doodad could tell me that something, or someone, was nearby and hostile. It was at least some consolation that the one with the device was on my side... for now. Still, knowing they’re out there would allow for a sneaky approach, the sort I favored. Perhaps from above, as ponies these days still never learned to look up. I’m about to talk to my companion when her voice bellows from her helmet, the amplified tones echoing through the city streets.
“Alright, which one of y’all be wantin' ta dance first?” Well, there goes surprise. Small arms crack at the mare, rounds pinging off her armor as somebody tries to make her eat her words. There’s a brief whine, then a storm of bullets erupts from the gatling on her side, chewing through the top floor of a nearby building as if a giant chainsaw cut the second floor in half. The noise is tremendous, a keening roar, followed by the sound of screams. Not from the pony that got hit. Based on the red splotches coating the remains of the far wall, I doubt there was enough left intact to glue together, even with necromancy. But instead the scream came from those around, realizing how grossly outclassed they were. Terrorized by the storm of fire, they broke, shapes moving off into the distance at a high speed. The barrels of her gatling slowed down, the tips red hot and hissing as snow hit them, sending small puffs of vapor into the air. “And if I be catchin’ any of ya lot out here again, yer goin’ ta have ta get a jar ta hold what’s left of ya once I be done, understood?” Who knows, maybe some of the attempted ambushers would have a change in heart to be better? Unlikely, but hope, like a weed, flowers even where it's unloved and unwanted. Still, it was nice to get into a firefight and not get shot, though something in my mind was still telling me to be wary. I flick my gaze around, searching for... something, anything. Was that a brief flash of movement? Or a trick of the wind...? I cannot tell from this distance, my eyes narrow slightly, as I ponder the situation.
The mare takes her helmet off again, seeming to appreciate the fresh air. I can understand that, seeing as to how she was probably usually stuck in her armor, in a bunker, underground. She seems to be completely unfazed at the complete annihilation of a pony, rendered into nothing but lumps of cooling meat. “So anyhow, what was I sayin’? Oh right, some raiders were tryin’ ta knock over a caravan, and I just so happened to be in tha area, so I let them know that I was there, by knockin’ ‘em in tha head, of course there weren’t much brain to be rattlin’ about from what I could see, but...” Apparently... she doesn’t shut up. This is going to be a long trip. Yet one more thing for me to be worrying about, it seems. This Knight accompanying me... I can trust her as far as I can throw her, and given her bulk and armor, that’s no distance at all.
Author's Note
Wow... I really need to keep at this more... I'm sorry it's been so long. Hopefully the next one won't be 3 years in the making too.
Fallout: Equestria - Shattered Dreams
Chapter 3: Check Please
It’s not that you’re wrong, you’re just not right.
What makes a friend? I was asked this earlier... A fellow crewmate declared that we were friends, after he had taken a few too many mugs of cider from the barrel. The others expected me to be enraged, to scorn him. And for appearances I did, a deliberate turn, a snub to remind him that his dreams would never reach me. Yet his question still haunts me. ‘Aren’t we friends?” Disregarding his lazy syntax, I have to wonder... What is a friend? Nessy is the closest I could imagine, yet I never let her get as close as she may have wished. Others tried, but I never made it easy on any of them. Eventually, they just... Stopped. Leaving me at a comfortable distance, one where they respected my space and where I appreciated their consideration. Is that enough? Did that make us friends? Or is more required of me? Unfortunately, I have nopony to ask... After all, that is a question you only ask your friends.
The wind continues to howl, blowing furiously as it whips up the snow into a blinding frenzy. Yet, even under these conditions I can see the ruins of the Silver Maple Library. I had never been here myself, and it wasn’t important enough for anypony to have heard of it generally, so why had Sacred Oath sent me here? How did she know what it was I wanted anyways? I mull these thoughts in my mind for a while, trying to come to terms with the inscrutable mare. Of course, I do what I can to avoid hearing Knight Hazel as much as possible, the mare still continuing the chatter incessantly. If there was a limit to the words a mare could speak, Hazel’s at constant threat of overrunning the maximum. Folding my ears slightly, I zone the knight out as best I can, even as her voice is like a worm burrowing into a green apple. I was unused to the chatter once again, though it had only been a few years since leaving Detrot... Or was it more than that? Time, to the timeless, slips through my hooves like sand through an hourglass. Finite, yes, but hard to track exactly. I pray that my hourglass is almost empty. Still, her bulk provides both cover and an obvious target to any foes and I will take what small blessings that I can in these accursed wastes.
The library itself is nothing grand. A small structure, fit only for a small neighborhood. The insides are torn to shreds, as expected, literary debris and broken shelving exposed to the unforgiving sky. Already damaged items being torn apart by time and the elements. I close my eyes for a moment, imagining what this place was, how it used to be. Small, quaint. The smell of dusty books and forgotten coffee lingering in the air. Tables for ponies to-... I look around again, opening my eyes once more. Hazel seems to be nosing around some of the debris, but in a careless manner, as if she’s more bored than curious. Something’s wrong here, and I can’t quite place my hoof on it. I look around the debris again... Shelving, a desk for the librarian and returns... The entryway, the small closet for a lost and found... More shelving... It suddenly strikes me. There’s no place for ponies to read. Everything seems to have been taken by shelving or administrative sections. Granted, there may be libraries out there like that, but I do not remember them from my time before the war. Looking around again, I locate the center of the building, the shelving on it miraculously intact, though the books are long gone... Or perhaps not so miraculously... I take a gentle swing with my knife at the shelf, the blade splintering off a small piece of wood as I do so. With a careful eye, I watch the damage, noticing the wood slowly knit back together with a faint lavender hue. Slow enough that most wouldn’t notice it at first, but steady enough that it wouldn’t take too long to repair the entire thing.
Shaking my head, I let out a brief snort... Magic. Of a type that would be far more taxing to cast, considering how long it’s lasted, than an ordinary bookshelf would warrant. “Knight Hazel, over here. I require your assistance.” I might have been able to push them over myself, but when your problem is a nail, a hammer is probably the better option.
Despite her bulk, strength, and armored assistance, the mare clearly has to work to shove the shelves to the side, the enchanted shelving seeming to do its best to resist her attempts. Finally, she manages to wedge the shelf back, a hiss escaping her armor as she locks the joints to keep the shelf back, revealing a small hatch that used to be hidden beneath. Wordlessly, I slip past her before opening the small hatch, looking down into the yawing darkness. “... I will tell you what I find.” Even before she has a chance to protest, or unlock her armor’s joints, I drop down the hatch, leaving her fighting the stubborn bookshelf and ignoring her weirdly polite yelling at me.
The revealed hallway is dark and dusty, clearly abandoned and disused. My eyes gleam slightly as I peer through the darkness. Though I may curse my irradiated state, I must admit there are times that some of it is useful. Bending towards the ground, I see a thick layer of dust coating the floor. Upon closer inspection, however, are thin, almost invisible lines cut into the dust. Patterns and magical runes hidden on the floor, betrayed by their burning through the dust above them. Pulling a small piece of chalk from my saddlebag, I scratch a quick mark on the wall, to let Knight Hazel know that the way ahead was trapped... Assuming she ever made it past that bookcase. Satisfied that I would not be responsible if I came back to her on fire, I gently hover down the hall, my eyes scanning for more defenses. The Steel Rangers may prefer large turrets and loud speakers, raiders may prefer spikes and desecrated bodies... But in my experience, the areas to watch out for are the ones where the traps are subtle, almost invisible. That spoke of a care and patience that few could match these days. The best traps were the ones unseen, and it took only a few seconds before the second line of traps revealed themselves. Hovering over the runes was one thing, but a crafty planner would realize the possibility, and move to neutralize it.
My ears pick out a faint noise, even as I drop to the ground, my hooves landing in the spaces between the spidery lines twisting through the dust beneath me. Something swishes over my head as I press low, the blade sliding quietly through the stillness. Moving with caution, I start to pick my way down the hall again, before finally leaping the last few steps onto a solid slab. Though I may despise my condition, at least stamina wasn’t a problem normally, the pains of crouching then springing towards the next safe area lost on my numb frame. Looking at the door in front of me, I gently nudge it open, relieved when I hear nothing on the other side. Slapping a pair of switches on the other side of the door, a thrumming noise starts to reverberate throughout the facility, even as the hallway behind me springs to life, ancient lights flickering on in succession, revealing the hidden blades, now stilled and deactivated. Apparently, the building was still powered, despite its apparent state.
The hall in front of me is lit as well, descending further into the earth. I slip past the guard post, seeing the skeletal remains of the former occupant. The glass window separating them from the rest of Equestria was shattered, something large and heavy apparently breaking through. The body itself is strange, the skull apparently caved in by whatever broke the glass. Looking around the enclosure, I notice that their weapon appears to have been unfired, the revolver still lying in the decaying remains of its holster. Still, I have no need for such a weapon, and cutting myself on the broken glass to reach it would be inconvenient. Dead or not, I do not like pulling shards of glass out of myself. Seeing nothing else that looked interesting, I proceeded further into the facility. Different labs were lit, covered in dust and broken bodies. Pony remains lay twisted where they fell, telling a story of death and carnage. The equipment is broken as well, the shattered remains scattered about the floor like the victims of a foal’s tantrum. I whisper under my breath, asking what in Celestia’s name could have caused this level of damage.
Finally, I reach a door that seems to be intact, the heavily reinforced door showing signs of damage, but the sturdy frame was clearly still intact. A small plaque to the side of the door said simply “Eclipse, S and L” over a small terminal, patiently beeping, asking for a passcode. Intriguing, that it was still operational, despite the damage. Sighing, I look at the terminal for a bit. Technology had always eluded me, even back when everything was new. I never did like to partake of these terminals and whatnot... It’s not that I was afraid of them, of course not... But I had no idea how they worked, so it was better for those who cared more to deal with them. I stare at it a bit longer, wondering if I can stab my way through the lock. Idly, I start tapping at the panel, ignoring the complaints of the machine, the flashing red light as my hoof randomly picks buttons to mash. Finally, I mash my hoof into the panel, setting off a shower of sparks as the buttons break, the terminal smoking and giving a sad mechanical whine as it sputters out. As it does so, the door slowly swings open, the locking mechanism disengaging at the destruction of the panel.
Several corpses lie on the ground, just inside the door, but on closer look, the bodies were not flesh, but rather mechanical. Simple constructs, more akin to a doll than a living creature. Still, their presence makes my heart stop for a moment, my eyes narrowing in suspicion. Their frail frames seem weak and useless, the blank space where their faces should be. “... These seem familiar. I do not like it.” My voice rasps out, barely audible despite the deafening silence. Creeping closer, I look at one of the more intact models that lay still. Though years have passed, I can still envision them in my memories, the horde of robotic minions, weak and mindless, wearing us down, distracting us until... My voice hissed out from behind my mask, bitter and angry. “... Bishop.” The moon cursed monster had stolen a companion from me, and these creatures reminded me of the ones who supported her. I remember the large equine form of Bishop, blood red plating covering a mechanical heart. Tall, imperious... Yet we killed her. Killed her during the Dead Zone retrieval. Rage wells deep inside my soul, where I had buried the fury and the grief from the loss of Star Racer. “Only the good are taken...” Shaking my head, I turn away from the remains on the ground, ears flicking about for sounds of an ambush, of more dangerous creatures in these labs, heading into the office before me.
The room is covered in dust, but otherwise free from any of the destruction or chaos of the labs around it. Even the robotic bodies seem to have fallen in place, without any signs of damage beyond age and weathering. A whiteboard stands in the corner, covered by a spider web of text and diagrams, far too advanced for me to even pretend to understand. A pair of desks sit facing each other, but slightly offset, only touching about two thirds of the front. Several potted plants, clearly fake, dot the desks, papers and books strewn across every surface. Oddly, I don’t see any pictures on the walls, or any real personal effects, just a few pens lying about and one of those swishy ball things. Perhaps whoever’s office this was didn’t have anything here, or perhaps they decayed with time. Regardless, I start to rifle through the documentation, carelessly looking through another pony’s life work. Charts and diagrams, numbers I don’t understand. Even the writing appears to be in some sort of abbreviated messages, rendering it unintelligible. Digging through the desk, the one with L. Eclipse written on the nameplate, I find several old cassettes, ones that I remember from back before the war. The writing on both is too faded to read, so I glance around, wondering if they kept a way to view these here. Sure enough, a small projector is tucked into the corner of the room, and with a solid thwack, it starts up again, the side opening, waiting for the tape. Slipping the first cassette into the machine, I slap it shut, ignoring the mechanical whine and little bits of smoke coming from the ancient device as it does its best to comply with my demands.
Text runs up the screen as the machine starts ‘Continual Funding for Project Codename (TBD). Warning, per the Ministry of Awesome, any dissemination of information contained within is subject to penalties up to, and including, lifelong incarceration and/or execution. Have a nice day!’ Tilting my head slightly, I wonder why the MAw was involved. To my knowledge, there was little, if anything, the MAw normally did, but there were always rumors that some of the jobs we did during the war were under their auspices... Assassinations, sabotage, and other activities beyond ‘polite’ society. Still, those were only rumors, and to most it appeared the MAw did... Not a whole lot, actually. Once the title screen finishes displaying, I quietly watch as the recording begins, my mind briefly wandering to thoughts of old cinema and popcorn.
I see two mares standing there amidst the flickering light of the projector, strikingly similar, yet clearly distinct, both wearing a lab coat matching those found in this facility. The one on the left looks to the one on the right, her dull orange coat offset by a raven colored mane. “Are you sure, sister...?” Her voice is cautious and low, as if afraid that her voice would give rise to her insecurities. The other mare looks over, a reverse of her sister’s colors, though that’s the only distinguishing feature between them. “Of course I am.” In contrast, her voice is confident, bold. The sort who knows what they want and that they will get it. Behind them lies what seems to be a mess of robotic parts in various states of disassembly. It’s hard to tell exactly what is what, but it appears they’re in a lab, various equine-shaped pieces scattered around them.
The camera pans over to a robotic frame, wires and inner workings visible, as no plating or covering has been applied to it yet. Still, the figure is taller than either of the sisters, almost as large as an alicorn would be, though not nearly as graceful looking. A stallion walks into view neatly dressed in a suit and tie, addressing somepony not visible as he looks back at the mares. “As you can see, the Eclipse sisters are developing a weapon to protect Equestria against the Zebrican threat.” He motions to the bold mare. “Solar Eclipse has been working on armament and protection...” His hoof indicates the quiet mare. “And Lunar Eclipse has been working on locomotion and control.”
Solar Eclipse grimaces slightly as he says that, interjecting. “One problem we’ve run into is the fine motor control required. Over flat surfaces, the current control platform works just fine, but...”
Lunar Eclipse chips in at this point, finishing her sister’s thought. “But without a pony’s guidance, the machinery is unable to compensate for uneven or changing terrain. With some more funding, we think we could-”
The stallion glares the mare into silence, but her sister steps in immediately, not so easily cowed it seems. “We need funding to improve the computer mobility programming, or everything we’ve done here is completely useless.” As if to emphasize her point, she shoves at a disassembled leg with a hoof, knocking it over.
There’s an awkward moment of silence, the three ponies stealing furtive glances at each other. A voice from out of sight sounds out, heavily disguised by a voice changer, rendering it distorted and genderless. “Approved. Send your budget requirements, and I’ll see that you get it. Do you have a name for the project?”
The stallion looks up nervously. “Due to the sister’s interests, they named it, the uh...”
The twin sisters look at each other, sharing a giddy smile fueled with relief. “We named it the Chassis: Heavy Experimental Strike System.”
The distorted voice comes back. “Project Chess is approved. I look forward to seeing the results.”
The screen fades to black, the playback clearly done. Project Chess... I do not remember any such deployment, and I had seen more of the war than many line ponies had. The dark and seedy areas where honor was meaningless and your only friend was the knife between your teeth. Brutal fighting, where armored support would have been much desired, save for the need for speed and stealth. Through the front lines, the raids, the ambushes, I had never heard anything of this Project Chess, or anything that would have come from it. The designs were clearly different from the Steel Rangers, to the point that I doubted the designers ever shared notes, let alone used designs and inspirations.
Quietly, I put the other cassette in, trying to figure out what I just saw. While bearing superficial resemblance to Bishop, the half constructed frame had nothing of her size, armor, or sense of power. With a click, the machine whirs up again, showing the same office yet again, though instead of the bright, artificial lights, the room is plunged into near darkness, only a screen providing illumination.
"Beginning recorded playback."
The video starts to play again, revealing Lunar Eclipse from the previous video. She looks at the camera, her eyes puffy and tired. Her voice is a hushed whisper, robotic parts lying in piles behind her. The mare's mane is a mess as well, as if she hasn't slept in days.
I reach over for another cassette, when the machine finally wheezes its last, belching a cloud of black smoke, causing ancient systems to start spraying water all over the office. The brim of my hat blocks much of the sprinklers, and my armored dress stops the rest. Short Circuit... That name was also familiar, but I can’t place it. That name doesn’t rest in my book, in the ponies slain for trusting in me... But like an itch I can’t reach, it lingers just out of my memory... I start to head out of the office, to try to find anything that would interest me, to explain why Sacred Oath would have sent me here. My muzzle forms a grimace, even as I voice my frustrations out loud. “... And what is Project Chess...?”
To my immense surprise, along with a few lost feathers as I fling myself to the side, a strange voice answers me. “Project Chess... Repurposed into the ChessMare Program. Entity has arrived as promised.” A pair of my knives skip off the table, leaving small scratches on the metal surface as a small box blinks while a voice comes through it. “You do not know me, though I am informed that your designation is Nevermore. Pre-War existence, former member of the Flickerjack. Current status... Unknown.”
My heart struggles to return to a steady beat, even as I slip around the side of the box. Rasping, I raise my voice just loud enough to carry to the box, prodding at the device with the tip of a knife. “What... Or who are you?”
“Irrelevant.” The voice returns, as deadpan as myself. “The important question is... Who are * you*, and why does the Red Bishop want to kill you?”
Author's Note
I mean... technically it wasn't 3 years in the making... it might have been 4.
I'm slowly getting back into the swing of things so... I have nothing to say except I'm sorry. Thank you to anyone who read this, I do appreciate it.
